


The Mad Queen

by oswiin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya Stark becomes Queen in the North, Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Eventual Queen Arya Stark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mad Queen Sansa Stark, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Queen Arya Stark, Romance, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The Grand Northern Conspiracy, War, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin
Summary: A year after Bran Stark was chosen to rule the Six Kingdoms, the Stark siblings are adjusting to their new lives. Bran struggles to calm such a divided country, Sansa copes with ruling without support, and Jon and Arya must adjust to life in peace-time.Any peace is shattered when they are summoned South, and Arya must navigate court intrigue once again. First, the kind that returned her home to her, and second, the kind that killed her father.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 48
Kudos: 91





	The Mad Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Continues the story of the TV show, whilst remaining truer to the canon of GRRM's ASOIAF

_**** _

When that crown of twisted metal and silver was placed on her head, Sansa Stark could not have been more proud. Everything she had worked for had come to fruition; many had underestimated her, and all of them were dead. And here she sat, the Queen in the North, watching her bannermen raise their swords and proclaim it so. She had won.

Yet, despite her elation, she couldn’t help but look around and see the tiniest glint in their eyes, furtive looks exchanged between her lords, even as they chanted her name, that suggested they were unhappy. She had seen that look before. It was a constant presence among Joffrey’s courtiers, and she was no stranger to it herself. Ever since she had been forced to look at her father’s festering head, that look barely left her features.

Still, Sansa shook off the feeling. It was just her mind playing tricks, surely, for she was not as bad as Joffrey, and she had not yet been Queen for a day. It was merely her own insecurities making her imagine things. Her men loved her, she knew, even if they had not so much chosen her as she had been the only Stark left. She would always thank Arya for choosing a ship over a throne, and Bran for making no argument when she requested an independant North. Perhaps she would always wonder if these men wanted her, or if they had no choice, but for now she would choose to think it was the former. Besides, they didn’t get to choose.

The North was hers, and she would hold it with her life.

Sansa Stark quickly settled into her new role. Commanding came easily to her, even more so once most of her bannermen returned to their own lands, and she had only to deal with them in letters. Her lords were proud, and did not enjoy being told they are wrong, even if that is the case more often than they are right. With ravens struggling to fly through the snow that fell almost daily, her life was quite peaceful, and she went to bed each night, in her father’s chambers, with an easy mind.

She passed her days with a smile and sense of pride that only comes from being a Queen. After breaking her fast, she often stood on Winterfell’s battlements and grinned, knowing that all she saw belonged to her. Despite the long winter, her land was beautiful. The snow only served to make it more so, dusting the landscape with frosty crowns and painting her hair a shimmering white. With her in charge, Sansa swore the North would never know war or pain again.

She was Queen, and she would make them love her.

* * *

Jon Snow sat at a cluttered table, despairing over yet more reports, requests and demands. Every day they came, asking for money, food, materials… never-ending were the duties on his shoulders, and despite how comfortable with ruling he had grown, it never became less tedious. His only rest came when he ventured beyond the wall, often for weeks at a time, to liase with the Free Folk, hunting, dancing and drinking as if he was one of them.

Once again, Jon found himself dealing with the Iron Bank and their ceaseless demands. If he could only get in the room with another envoy, he knew he could sway them, but alas they sent only letters. With the upkeep of the wall, and the construction of a massive gate where the Night King broke through, he needed their support more than ever. Jon saw no use in keeping the wall completely closed off now that they had made peace with the Free Folk, but he also did not want to abandon it entirely. Arya, his brave little sister, had killed the Night King, but he was sure the Last Hero had done the same thing eight-thousand years ago, and they had returned all the same. Jon Snow would not let future generations be defenceless if - when - that day came.

At that moment, his thoughts were halted by a knock at the door. Jon was thankful for the interruption, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the door was nudged open. A set of small, dainty fingers curled around the wood, and he heard the familiar _swish_ of soft, flowing fabric. Jon thought he knew who it was, and he sat upright expectantly. 

When Satin entered, Jon felt a little deflated. Still, his perfumed steward always brought levity to his day.

“M’lord,” he began, his southern accent still sticking out among the new wildling crowd at Castle Black, “should I bring some food for you? The men have already eaten.” Jon nodded politely, thankful that his devoted steward was so thoughtful, but often it grew tiresome.

“Thank you, Satin,” he answered wearily, “I would be most grateful. Is there any news from Long Barrow, or any of our forts?” Satin finally stepped into the room and stood tall, well-versed in how to officially deliver correspondence. 

“Eddison Tollett is doing well at Long Barrow, he says,” Satin answered. His delivery was now well-practiced. “They are a week away from travelling east to help with the construction of the gate, after which they will return. Greyguard, Icemark and the Nightfort are all garrisoned, though the Nightfort is still under construction. They are working on pushing back the forest.” Jon nodded, pleased with their progress. 

It had only been a few months since the Battle of King’s Landing, and already the Night’s Watch was thriving once again. They still were not at full capacity, but more than they used to be. It helped having a sympathetic ruler in the North and South, and the Wildlings settling the Gift seemed pleased to assist them.

“Those at Greenguard and Eastwatch are hard at work restoring the Wall,” Satin continued, and Jon could see him struggling to remember all the details he had read. “The ships from Braavos are bringing in the metal they need, and they are using timber from the forest. All is proceeding on schedule,” Satin concluded, clearly pleased with himself for not stumbling. And Jon was pleased for him.

“Thank you, Satin,” Jon said, and found himself daunted again by the long list of tasks he still needed to accomplish. Satin bowed and turned to leave, but with his hand on the door, Jon called out, stopping him in his tracks. “Oh, Satin?” he called, and the steward turned to face him, “is, um, is she…?”

Satin grinned with understanding. “Yes, m’lord. On the wall, as always at this time, m’lord.” Jon smiled gratefully at him as he bowed again and finally left. Jon settled into the peace and darkness of his chambers for a moment, before deciding his work could wait until tomorrow.

Jon’s climb of the great switchback stair was long and tedious, but he had no wish to disturb his brothers, and he enjoyed the solitude. The air was bracing; despite what everyone thought, winter was still upon them, and it would be a long and difficult one. When he reached the top and turned to his left, however, all other thoughts fled Jon Snow’s mind.

There she stood, facing south, wrapped in furs as her brown hair whipped in the wind and a crown of frost adorned her brow. A month ago, when Jon, in his small village beyond the Wall, received word of her arrival at Castle Black, he found his horse could not run fast enough. Now, as then, her cheeks were ruddy, her expression contemplative, and Jon would not have disturbed her peace for the whole world. It had already been disturbed so many times, and suddenly Jon saw ash falling around her instead of snow, and instead of wind whistling through her hair, he heard screams…

He watched Daenerys as she spoke to her troops after their victory, how powerful she looked, with Drogon perched on the ruins on the Red Keep, roaring her triumph in tune with the cheering Dothraki horde. The city was still on fire, and it seemed as though his dragon queen was not yet done. In the midst of that chaos, she appeared at his side like a spirit. Jon didn’t even hear her approach.

“Arya,” he said, concerned and shocked. He placed his hands on her shoulders and head, trying to draw her close to him, but she remained as still as a statue. _She should be in Winterfell_ , he thought, _she should be safe_. Yet, he should have known she would be where the fighting is thickest. “What are you doing here?”

She looked at him, and Jon saw fear. Arya was still just a girl, and from the look of her, she had been in the city when Drogon struck. No wonder she was scared. And she had come to her big brother for safety. Safety he could not give her, not whilst Daenerys Targaryen still lived.

“Hey,” he implored, as Arya stayed silent, “what happened?” Jon watched her ragged intake of breath, noticed the blood beneath the ash on her tired face, and realised again just how much he had failed her. Whilst he had been with his queen, he had neglected his favourite sibling, and he saw the result.

“I came to kill Cersei,” Arya finally answered, “but your queen got there first.” She seemed so cool and unaffected, as if that was all she was able to do. But Jon knew Arya, and he knew when she was pretending. He could see when she pretended not to be upset so Sansa wouldn’t get her in trouble, and he could see it now. She was terrified and close to collapsing into his arms, but even now she would not let herself. That was how much the world had hurt her, and Jon wished he could take a sword to everyone that made her like that. 

“She’s everyone’s queen now,” he said, though he did not believe it. Even without the fall of King’s Landing, Jon had no doubt a certain someone would contrive to get rid of her. Arya said nothing, and instead followed Daenerys with her eyes. Jon saw anger, but also pity, in those silvery depths, but in him there was only a righteous fury that his little sister had almost been killed. “Wait for me outside the city gates, I’ll come find you.” He made to leave, but Arya stopped him with a firm, gloved hand. He loved those hands.

“Jon,” she said, “she knows who you are. Who your parents are.” She confronted him with a truth Jon wanted to ignore. “I know you’ll always be a Stark, but no-one else will accept that. You saw what happened when two people knew of your blood.” Jon didn’t want to agree, but how could he not? She was right as always. “You’ll always be a threat to her, whether either of you want it to be that way or not. People will hear your name, and decide a man is better than a woman. Just like Varys. And Tyrion… and Sansa. She asked you to keep your name secret because her life was in danger. Her life would be easier if you were dead.”

Arya turned her head to watch Daenerys walk away, flanked by her Unsullied guards, and Jon followed her gaze. In that moment, loathe he would be to admit it, Jon did not think of the hundreds in King’s Landing who lost their lives. His anger was because of his sister who almost died that day. And because of that, he knew what he needed to do.

The biting wind drew Jon reluctantly from his thoughts, and he was back on top of the Wall, with Arya. And she was safe, or so he hoped. He walked towards her, but she seemed so wrapped up in her thoughts that she did not notice his approach. He went to stand behind her, and tried to see what she was so focused on, though the flurry obscured his view.

Eventually, he gave up, and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. She jumped at the surprise contact, and started giggling when she realised it was him.

“Jon!” she squealed with delight, playfully kicking against his embrace. He finally released her and stood by her side on the gravelled path atop the ice. “You scared me,” she said, without a hint of actual anger.

“What were you looking at, little sister?” he asked.

“I was trying to see if I could see Winterfell from here,” she said, a wistful look in her grey eyes.

“Not in this weather,” he teases, earning him a swift elbow to his side.

“I know that, stupid,” she said, scrunching up her nose at him, the way she did when she was annoyed with him. Unfortunately, it only ever managed to make Jon laugh, which made Arya even more irritated. “I just… I miss home.”

“Me too,” Jon admitted, with a sigh. This high above the trees, Winterfell would be visible in the distance on a clear day. But heavy fog and snowfall had set in, making them both feel as far away from it as they could be. “You could still go back. You’re not in exile.”

Arya shook her head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t be alone with Sansa again,” she said, a pained expression on her pale face. “She betrayed you, Jon. She betrayed our Gods, she betrayed the North, she betrayed Daenerys, she betrayed all of us. She’s worse than Littlefinger. I don’t think I could ever trust her again.” Jon stayed silent, for he could only agree. He yearned to say the same to his half-sister’s face when last they spoke, but he did not want that to be how they parted. Still, the anger continued to brew within him, just beneath the surface.

“Besides,” she continued, turning to him with a light smile, “I am now a sworn sister of the Night’s Watch. I couldn’t leave anymore than you.” Jon couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sworn sister, I like that,” he said. “Maybe you should take your vows, and make it official. You couldn’t be a ranger, of course. You’re too skinny.” She scrunched up her nose at him, but it made her look more cute than angry.

“I’m not _so_ skinny. Not anymore.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. “We must train you with a longsword, sis. You’ll need one beyond the wall.” Arya’s face lit up at the idea, but quickly settled back into a troubled contemplation.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Jon,” she said at last, without a hint of malice or resentment in her voice. Jon knew of what she spoke without any more being said. “You shouldn’t have killed her like that. Father wouldn’t approve. After all she had done, she earned a fair trial.”

“I know,” Jon answered sadly. They fell into comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the wall and the forest. The sounds of the North. It gave Jon a moment to reflect on his shame. That guilt stayed with him each day, and he would never forgive himself for it. Daenerys deserved better. And she certainly deserved better than him.

Her soft voice broke the tranquility. “I’m not ready to be normal like everyone else is,” she said, turning to face the wilderness to the north. “I’m not ready for peace. I need to heal first.” Jon stood behind her, placing his rough hands on her shoulders and his chin on her hair. “But, I think I could stay here forever. As long you were with me.”

“Always,” he said.

* * *

Sansa stood in her great hall, surveying the decorations and ensuring they were ready for guests. The long tables had been brought out, and Sansa’s carved throne sat behind the high table, with spaces for four other guests to sit beside her. She looked at those empty seats, and in them she did not imagine Lord Glover and his men. She saw her mother, her father, Robb, Rickon and Bran. All the people she had lost. She even saw Arya and Jon, sitting at either end.

In her mind, they were all smiling, and all so proud of her.

But they were ghosts, and faded as soon as one of her servants entered the room.

The feast that night was a chore she despised, not least because of Lord Glover’s poor eating habits. The hall was rowdy with bannermen and freeriders, lords and their wives, and Sansa Stark stewed in silence, listening to Robett Glover drone on about his duties as the Lord of Deepwood Motte. Her father always listened to his men, but Sansa could not bear it, so she mostly smiled and nodded as her blue eyes darted about the room. It did not help that Rodrik Ryswell had decided to join his old friend on this visit, bringing two of his sons and stretching her food supplies beyond her imagination.

But, in every inconvenience, there was an opportunity. House Ryswell was one of the first to declare for House Bolton, and no matter how much Jon insisted they were false to the traitors, Sansa knew where their loyalties once lay. She had heard how vocal Barbery Dustin had been about her hatred for the Starks before her death, and Sansa had learned to sniff out lies. Now they were here, she knew exactly what to do.

“Lord Ryswell,” she called, grabbing the older man’s attention. He sputtered and wiped the ale from his mouth, then grinned at her to show he was listening. “We are honoured by your family’s presence in Winterfell,” she said, mustering up long-forgotten courtesies, “and it is in fact most fortunate that you are here. I would like to speak with your sons. Rickard and Roose, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, your grace, well-remembered,” he said. He called out to the, now hushed, throng of guests, and two young men stepped up to the high table. They both had hair the colour of dirt and eyes like seafoam, and Roose’s scraggly beard showed that he was almost a man. They clasped their cloaks with horseheads of different colours. “May I introduce my sons, Rodrik and Roose Ryswell. My eldest, Roger, remained in the Rills.”

They bowed cordially, putting on the appearance of civility before their queen, though all knew how much the brothers quarrelled with each other. “You are welcome, my lords. It seems I might have a task for you both,” she said, and Sansa revelled in the looks of pride on their faces. “Ships from Braavos will be arriving in White Harbour in a fortnight, and it seems the Iron Bank wishes to renegotiate our deal with them. I wish for the two of you to represent our interests.”

Rodrik was grinning at his sons, full of pride that his sons would be selected for such a high responsibility. Robett Glover regarded the event with cool disinterest, though his eyes were always mutinous.

“I have set out the terms in this letter,” Sansa continued, and her new maester took his cue to hand Roose the paper. “It details the materials we need, how far I am willing to go for those materials, and the items we have to barter with. I hope you will not offer more than is detailed here.” The young men nodded solemnly. “I, of course, cannot be too long away from Winterfell, and it would benefit all parties if you were to meet the envoy at White Harbour. Lord Manderly has agreed to house you both, and I am trusting you to serve the North, and your Queen, in this matter.”

“They will serve you, your grace,” Lord Rodrik assured her. His sons bowed and returned to their seats, as Sansa raised a glass of wine to her lips.

“I’m sure they will,” she said, and sly smile playing on her lips. 

This was the start of her reign. A ruler can be loved and just, she had come to learn, though she had yet to see anyone succeed. But she would be both. She vowed she would be both.


End file.
